This all reintroduced a reason to believe that Morlia had been unfaithful to Rinlot with every actor in passing or slave in the house.

But so what? Was it possible she’d fucked an Ordrid, snickered behind Rinlot’s back, had the bastard, and was finally found out? Seemed humorously plausible as I put the pieces together. And maybe most jolting of all, though it didn’t present as Werlyle said it: I’d spent All Malevolent Masquerade, my favorite holiday, locked away in the dungeon. And Rinlot had died soon after.

Curious, but even dungeons can feel drabber. With Rinlot gone and his foul replacement proving to be even dumber, my wheels began to turn. Soon after, curled up in the bottom of a prison wagon bound for the Institute of Human Sciences, I popped out of a pile of bones and regained my beloved freedom.

When I owned my own mansion, whether in the Morgeltine or elsewhere, I would have to gouge out the eyes of some slaves, and remove the tongues of others. You can’t ambush a Pelat, you can’t trick a trickster, and you can’t steal from Tymothus Snier. Yet, at least in one way, I had been bested.

The fabled Rogaire vault! I’d gladly spend another year in the dungeon just to study this place’s layout, learn its deepest secrets, and master its locks. So much would go unplundered, my heart lamented, but my better judgment was telling me that it was time to go.

Werlyle’s proclamation that the Moliahenna River would be fed the bodies of Morlia and the boy was rooted in a hateful truth. I had seen the look in Werlyle’s eyes, that same black intensity I’d seen worn on men’s faces in the dungeon when bent to kill. The last thing I needed was the Ward investigating a missing rich kid. A burglary would be bad enough, a murder worse, but a wealthy person’s murder the foulest.

The night’s mission came back to me in a burst.

First, go into town; rent the cart and mules. Done so many times at the service of the mansion, no goon or slave would give a second glance at the cart waiting in the inner bailey.

Second, handle the occupants. I had just the thing.

Third, to the library. With finite room, the books would lie on the cart’s bed.

Fourth, the mid-weight items and sculptures, followed by the contents of the wine cellar.

Lastly, the fragile paintings, and if I was lucky…everything I could pillage from Morlia’s room. I was going back in there; enough time had been wasted, and she would be drooling on some overpriced throw blanket.

My logical hope was that the way to all the stinking piles of gold started somewhere in her chambers. My one unfortunate trip into that maze had suggested one hundred doors could have been waiting behind all the hanging dresses and lip-kissed mirrors.

Werlyle and his contents were to remain untouched. Call me soft, but he’d been a friend in a certain light. Besides, living there seemed cruel enough of a fate.